


Faith Can Move Mountains

by MacPherson



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Anxiety, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Panic Attacks, Role Reversal, Stress, and he's shockingly well-adjusted, because the poor guy deserves some peace, i guess, in that Enjolras is insecure and Grantaire is the one giving the pep talk
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-22
Updated: 2014-03-22
Packaged: 2018-01-16 15:25:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,008
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1352365
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MacPherson/pseuds/MacPherson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He brushes off Grantaire’s inquiry, but everything inside him is screaming.<br/>________</p><p>Grantaire isn’t the only one with issues with insecurity.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Faith Can Move Mountains

**Author's Note:**

> Check the tags, folks!

He hasn’t eaten all day, because of the unease in his stomach and the cotton in his mouth. He knows he wouldn’t be able to keep anything down—drinking water has been a challenge today, so food is out of the question. And there’s the issue of taking time to get the food ready—time he should be dedicating to working, but he’s sitting here with a stack of books in front of him and the words are blurry and it’s not like he’s getting anything done anyway.

He could take a few minutes to get a bowl of cereal or _something_.

He can’t remember the last time he got a good night’s sleep—more than four hours, uninterrupted, and woke up feeling better than when he went to sleep. There’s just _so much_ to get done, and he isn’t making progress on any of it.

The papers don’t research and write themselves, and the logistics of the rallies may seem effortless and spontaneous, but that’s how you know they’re well organized—when they flow naturally. And that takes hours and hours of planning.

Sleep. He needs sleep. He _really_ needs sleep.

But then again, if he goes to sleep now, he won’t have time to do everything he needs to in the morning. If he buckles down and just _focuses_ now, he can get enough done that he can go to bed in two hours and wake up at what is supposed to be his normal time—not that his sleep patterns are regular enough for there to be anything normal about this.

But as soon as he turns his attention to the words on the page, they’re blurry and his throat is tight and his heart rate speeds up, and he’s reading—he can see that there are words on the page—but for all he knows, they’re just assembled in a random order that means absolutely nothing. His eyes skim over the neat print, but none of it makes an impression. Ask him about what the text says and he couldn’t tell you a blessed thing.

There’s a knock at the door. His stomach practically jumps up his throat, and his conscience begins to duel with itself. _No, no, go away. I have a million things to do and I can’t concentrate on any of them, and I’ve learned by now that I need to build time for panic attacks into the time I make for work. But please come in and snap me out of this. I’m so far into the maze that is my own head that I’m completely lost. An interruption is just about the most welcome thing in the world right now—even if it’s Grantaire._

 _Especially_ if it’s Grantaire.

And because the universe either loves him or hates him, it’s Grantaire.

He pulls the door open and makes a sweeping welcoming gesture, silently inviting Grantaire inside.

“Thank you, Apollo, you’re so kind. I have your share of the fliers here—I even got the approval to hang them—see the stamp right there. Jehan and Feuilly and I will start hanging them tomorrow—we’ve divvied up the buildings to divide and conquer. I know you’re working on that paper, and on the plans for the rally and stuff, but I figured you could use a break, so I brought snacks.”

He notices the tray and the paper bag in Grantaire’s hand for the first time.

_But oh God if I start drinking caffeine now I’ll never get to sleep._

“It’s decaf.”

He nods silently, still not entirely sure if Grantaire has a sixth sense or if he made that comment aloud.

“Look, I know you’re super busy, but I just wanted to drop these off. So I’ll leave the latte and the muffin and go so you can get back to work. Sorry to bother you.”

_No no no no no no shit._

“Wait, Grantaire—“

Grantaire already has on hand on the doorknob, but turns around, eyebrows raised a little in expectation, but as his gaze focuses in on Enjolras, they furrow in concern.

“Enjolras, are you okay?”

“I’m fine.” He brushes off Grantaire’s inquiry, but everything inside him is screaming. His chest is tightening and he can’t breathe and he’s lightheaded and he knows he needs to eat more than one goddammed muffin, but there’s a gnawing pain in his stomach that means either he’s incredibly hungry or that he’s about to throw up, and he’s not sure which one it is right now, so he’s not taking any chances.

“Enjolras, please tell me the truth,” Grantaire says quietly, hardly more than a whisper, but there’s an earnest plea in his eyes.

Enjolras tries to take a deep breath, and chokes.

“I’m a fraud.”

“Oh, Enjolras.” Grantaire pulls Enjolras to him. This should feel patronizing. This is completely backwards. Being comforted by Grantaire is roughly last on the list of situations Enjolras has ever considered even remotely likely, but then again, he’s always believed in the impossible being possible. Theoretically, at least.

It’s so rash and unexpected and so surprisingly _natural_ that he just lets himself let go, for the first time in a very long time. He slumps against Grantaire, his rigid shoulders releasing. The noise he makes would be a sob if he were actually crying, but he’s not, and so it’s an awkward sort of squawk. Grantaire rubs his back.

“Hey, hey, hey,” he says soothingly, steering Enjolras over to the couch. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“What’s there to say?” He chokes out. His mouth has been so dry for so long, and suddenly it’s not anymore, and his nose is running, but his tongue feels swollen and he can’t make his mouth form the words he wants to say, and he’s so incredibly frustrated because he has all these things inside him struggling, fighting, to get out, but none of them ever come out the way he wants them to.

“This isn’t about me—it’s never been about me—it’s about the people we’re fighting for, the stories we’re telling, and _I’m not enough_. I can never do enough to make people understand. I’ll never be good enough.”

“Hey, you sound like me, which means there’s something really wrong.”

He knows Grantaire is just trying to lighten the mood—that’s what Grantaire does—lightening the mood by calling bullshit on everything and everyone. He can barely stand to look at him. He’s spent years trying to prove Grantaire wrong, and here he is, admitting that R has been right all along.

“Hey, hey, Enjolras, listen to me,” Grantaire’s voice is soft and comforting and earnest. “You’re not alone. I know it feels like you are—I’ve been there—and I know that there’s a part of you that doesn’t believe that anyone else could possibly understand your pain, but believe me when I say that I do. What you’re feeling is real, but you don’t have to go through it alone. There are people around you who want to help, who care about the cause and care about _you_. You don’t have to carry the weight of the world on your shoulders.”

“Everyone else has their own things to worry about.”

“And that is a shitty excuse for running yourself into the ground.”

Enjolras responds with a bitter laugh.

“I mean it, E. You can’t save the world if you don’t take care of yourself. There’s that Gandhi quote about being the change you wish to see, right? And I think one of the Greek philosophers said something about leading yourself before you lead others.”

“Socrates,” Enjolras says, his voice raspy.

“Yeah, that name sounds familiar.” Grantaire grins.

There’s silence for a few moments as Enjolras leans against the back of the couch, rubbing his eyes and then his temples. If Grantaire didn’t know any better, he would think that Enjolras was shaking ever so slightly.

“Do you know why I keep coming back?” He asks quietly.

“Because your idea of fun is to take me down a notch?”

There’s the Enjolras he knows and loves.

Oh, fuck.

“If I wanted to be funny, I’d say you were right. But I keep coming back because I believe in you. Yeah, so maybe putting all the emphasis on traits you were born with rather than ones you can cultivate is unfair and puts unfair pressure on you. But it’s because you _care_ , and that is what will get you through. Yeah, sometimes you care too much, and you have to learn to rein yourself in when things start to get away from you, but the fact that you care so much about making things better for other people at the expense of your own happiness…” He trails off, slumping back against the couch, arms out to the side in a motion similar to surrender.

Enjolras gazes at Grantaire, and slowly blinks a few times.

“What do you mean?”

Grantaire sighs. _Are we really going to do this now?_ “It’s just that on your list of priorities, you always seem to be last.”

“I’m an upper-class white guy. I’m not the oppressed one, I’m the one doing the oppressing. I’m fine. I have no reason to be feeling this… whatever this is.”

“That’s not how it works, E. You can’t apply logic to anxiety.”

Enjolras makes a frustrated noise and hits himself in the face with a pillow. “Why is this so _hard?_ ”

“Because you’re terrible with talking about your feelings. And because sometimes we forget you aren’t actually a Greek god.”

“Subtlety isn’t really your strong suit is it?”

“But blunt honesty is.”

“Yeah, I already knew that. Thanks.”

They fall into silence again, and this is disconcerting. Silence isn’t normal for them.

“I know that it’s secondary to The Cause—everything is secondary to The Cause—but for some of us your wellbeing is pretty damn important,” Grantaire ventures.

“You mean for you.”

“That’s not what I said.”

“I’m repressed, R, I’m not blind.”

“I never said you were.”

“Kiss me.”

“What?”

“I want to kiss you. Would you like to kiss me?”

“Enjolras, I’m not sure this is a good idea.”

“Why not?”

Oh god, he’s pouting. Grantaire is utterly defenseless against pouting Enjolras.

“You’re not in the best place right now.”

“I will feel better if you kiss me.”

“And now you’re coercing me and my consent would be meaningless.”

“R…”

“If I kiss you, will you genuinely try to get some sleep?”

“If you cuddle me.”

“I think that can be arranged.”

Despite years of longing now coming to a head, they don’t dive for each other immediately. Enjolras leans toward Grantaire a little bit, and R gently places a hand at the back of Enjolras’ head, pulling their foreheads together.

“I know it feels impossible,” he says softly, he breath tickling Enjolras’ nose. “But you will get through this.”

And with that, Grantaire shifts down a bit and presses his lips gently against Enjolras’. It’s soft and sweet and wow, he could get used to this. Enjolras actually whimpers when Grantaire pulls away.

“Okay. Naptime.”

“But… but…”

Grantaire sighs, running a hand up and down Enjolras’ back. “I know you want to have some big conversation about feelings and shit, but we should have that conversation when you aren’t severely sleep-deprived. So lie down, cuddle with me as much or as little as you want to, and we’ll talk when you’re feeling better.”

“But…”

“Enjolras. There’s time.”

He nods slowly. “There’s time.” He repeats Grantaire’s words reverently.

It’s not going to fix everything. Of course not. He knows he needs to learn how to manage things better, how to take care of himself if he’s going to do everything he wants to do, everything he knows he can do.

But for now, he has Grantaire’s arms around him and Grantaire’s fingers gently combing through his hair and Grantaire’s voice offering comforting reassurance, and the steady _thud-thud_ of Grantaire’s heartbeat echoing in his head. And for now, that’s enough.

**Author's Note:**

> Am I capable of writing a fic that doesn’t involve snarky discussions of consent and sleepy cuddling? Apparently not. 
> 
> This fic is incredibly personal for me—Enjolras’ anxiety is based pretty much exclusively on my own--in particular, one awful episode I had in December. I’m actually currently taking a leave of absence from school to deal with my anxiety. Subsequently, the title comes from Alison Krauss’ “Get Me Through December,” a song which has gotten me through many a bad spot. 
> 
> I’m missmarionmac on Tumblr—come say hi! (I only bite on Tuesdays.)


End file.
